


These Boots were Made for a Right Good Kicking

by hexagonad (ideserveyou)



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Food Fight, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ideserveyou/pseuds/hexagonad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the legendary Four-Way Crimp-Off, Vince and Howard's satsuma fight gets a bit out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Boots were Made for a Right Good Kicking

“Bollo.”

“Yes, Naboo?”

“You better get out there.”

“Bollo not go outside in snow. Cold air bad for Bollo’s asthma. And Bollo got a sore throat from all that fourway crimping.”

“I’m tellin’ you, you better get out there right now and sort those two out.”

“Why? Because they need more satsumas?”

“No, because they’ve gone wrong. Looks like they’re havin’ a real fight now.”

“What make you think that?”

“Well, for a start, Howard’s on the ground…”

“Probably fall over his own big feet.”

“… and Vince is kicking seven sorts of shit out of him.”

“Good.”

“ _Bollo_ …”

“All right, all right, no need to glare like that, Bollo going, precious Vince might get stubbed toe…”

…

 

Howard Moon lies passively on the pavement outside the shop, and reflects on the transient nature of human happiness.

It’s not easy for a man to reflect when he’s lying in the snow clad only in his underpants, and his ex-best-mate is laying into him with pointed, high-heeled boots.

One perfectly aimed satsuma in the hair; one perfectly mistimed remark about logical conclusions. All it took to flip Vince’s mood, turning their playful little interlude into a serious nightmare.

There seems no point in Howard fighting back, so he simply lets Vince’s fancy footwear do its worst. Which is quite bad, actually, and the pavement has already made a mess of Howard’s face where it suddenly came up and hit him, right after Vince did the same; but it’s the words that do the real damage, the bitterness pouring out of Vince’s mouth in a seemingly unstoppable flood and eating its way straight into Howard’s heart.

“You complete _shit_ , Howard, how could you do that? You sold us out, we were rubbish. Logical conclusion, my arse. I should never have listened to you and your crackpot ideas.”

The pointy toe of one boot makes solid contact with Howard’s ribcage. “I _trusted_ you, and what did you do? Made me look a total freakin’ idiot, prancin’ about in that stupid getup. Should’ve known you’d be totally out of touch.”

Another blow lands, on the back of Howard’s head this time; Howard curls into a ball, trying not to make a noise.

“That has to be the worst gig we’ve ever done. I’ll never live it down. It was a fucking disaster.”

Vince sounds close to tears. Howard’s eyes are already watering, and not just from the pain. He squeezes them shut, hoping Vince will knock him out soon, so he doesn’t have to listen to this any more. “You stupid old wanker, they were _laughing_ at us…”

“Vince, it time for you to come inside.”

“Piss off, Bollo, you’re not my sodding mother.” Vince gets in another couple of hits for good measure before there are sounds of a scuffle and the pounding mercifully ceases.

Howard opens one eye a crack; the other one is already swollen shut. He can see Bollo’s big feet standing on slushy snow, a crushed satsuma, and a rather alarming amount of blood.

He didn’t need to see that. He squints upwards, and gets a glimpse of Vince being held firmly in the grip of a black hairy arm.

“Come on, precious flower, you all cold, Bollo sort Harold out for you later.”

“Howard.”

“Whatever.”

“Howard.”

“Bollo hear you the first time.”

“ _Howard_.”

Vince wriggles free and kneels beside Howard. “Fuck, what’ve I done? Howard? Howard, can you hear me? Shit. Bollo, go an’ dial 999.”

“No.” Howard’s voice has lost its usual manly tone, and reverted to a weak whimper. “I’m… all right. No hospital.”

“But there’s blood everywhere. You need a doctor.”

“I don’t. Please. I don’t want to have to explain… don’t want them to ask… ask you questions…” Howard coughs, and moans as the pain in his ribs catches his breath. “Just get Naboo.”

“He’s already here, you ballbag,” a familiar voice lisps. “Bollo, get this idiot out of the way so I can sort this other one out.”

Bollo hauls Vince to his feet; Howard gets a glimpse of white, goosepimply shin, and a boot, all scuffed and bloodstained. Somehow the state of that boot seems more wrong than all of today’s other wrongness put together. Vince’s boots should never look like that.

Howard’s guilt is huge, choking him. “Sorry,” he mumbles, in the vague direction of Vince’s ankle. “Sorry… about… boot…”

“Shut up, Howard.” A small, cool hand is laid on Howard’s aching forehead, and there is darkness.

…

 

“I fink he’s comin’ round.” Naboo sounds blurred and too loud, like when they were in the submarine. There’s a grunt from Bollo, but not a sound from Vince…

“Vince?” A stranger’s voice, weak and raspy and coming from a long way away. And somebody has a blinding headache.

“He’s still in the bath. Shut up an’ drink this.” The cold rim of a glass presses against Howard’s chapped lips. The drink smells bad and tastes worse, but it pushes the headache into the background.

Howard forces his good eye open, wincing at the sight of the black-and-white pattern on the back of the sofa he’s lying on.

“How…how did I get here?”

“Magic.” Naboo is deadpan as always.

Howard is impressed. “Really?”

“Nah, I got Bollo to carry you up the stairs.” Naboo puts the empty glass on the table, and shakes his head. “Look at the state of you. An’ I thought you were the one with the anger management issues.”

“What you do to precious Vince?” Bollo is glaring down at Howard from behind Naboo’s shoulder.

“I – I don’t rightly know.”

The gorilla grunts, evidently not convinced.

“I’ve never seen him lose it like that before.” Howard looks up anxiously. “Is he going to be OK, Naboo? Can you do anything for him?”

“Aren’t you mad at him?”

“Well, no. I suppose it was a bit of an overreaction –”

“Only a bit? You’ve got a black eye, two cracked ribs and a cut on the head that they would’ve put a dozen stitches in if you’d gone to hospital.”

Howard reaches up to feel his throbbing scalp, but Naboo says sharply: “Don’t. I fixed it.”

“What with?”

“Soldier ants. Don’t ask. And _don’t_ mess with it, or they’ll go AWOL an’ fasten on somewhere else where you really didn’t want them.”

Howard hastily withdraws his hand.

“An’ to answer your question about Vince, I have no idea, I’m not an expert on alien psychological screw-ups even after livin’ with you two nutters for years. I can fix the physical stuff, but the mindfuck? I’d say that was your problem. This has gone way beyond the point where pictures of kittens can help.”

“I don’t even know where to start…” Howard groans.

“Just shut up an’ go back to sleep for a bit, yeah?” The shaman’s voice is level, but not unkind. “The potion will accelerate the healing. It’s made with –”

“Actually, Naboo, you don’t need to tell me, thanks. So long as it works, I don’t care whether it’s got rotting maggots or Bollo’s toenail clippings in it.”

As Howard sinks into the darkness again, he hopes he imagined that Naboo muttered ‘just as well’.

 

…

 

Howard wakes in his own bed, in the early dusk of a winter afternoon, and wishes he hadn’t.

It’s been two days, and lots of bits of him still hurt.

It hurts still more that Vince hasn’t spoken to him since the fight. Hasn’t given him a chance to apologise. Just – avoided him completely, never coming to help Naboo dose him up or put ointment on his bruises or extract the occasional rogue soldier ant from the bedclothes.

And although Howard always hopes he might be, Vince has never been there, sitting beside the bed, when Howard wakes up from the psychedelic and frankly rather disturbing dreams brought on by the shaman’s healing potions.

And he’s always quietly left the room whenever Howard’s managed to totter as far as the kitchen or the lounge.

He didn’t even say thanks when Howard and Bollo between them managed to clean his boots and persuade Naboo to perform a spell of surface restoration on the scuffed white leather…

Howard pushes these painful thoughts away and sits up, wincing as his back emits an audible creak.

As always, there is a glass of murky green liquid on the bedside table with a note saying DRINK THIS BEFORE YOU TRY TO DO ANYTHING ELSE.

It tastes no better than any of Naboo’s previous brews, but it makes everything hurt slightly less, and frees up Howard’s aching joints enough for him to scramble out of bed, pull on a dressing gown and hobble down the corridor.

It’s very quiet in the flat. There’s a light showing under Naboo’s door, and Howard catches a whiff of incense tinged with something less legal. No sign of Vince; perhaps he’s gone out.

It seems a long way to the kitchen, and when he gets there Howard can’t face making tea, so he just pours himself a glass of water and goes to sit on the sofa. He clicks the lamp on…

Oh.

Vince is already there, huddled in one corner, looking utterly miserable and wearing very ordinary jeans and a baggy old brown jumper that Howard knows he would never normally even contemplate being seen dead in.

In fact, that jumper looks very familiar… Oh, dear. Poor Vince must _really_ be in a bad way if he can’t even tell his own clothes from Howard’s any more.

Howard gestures vaguely at the sofa. “Mind if I join you?”

Vince shakes his head, and looks at the floor.

Howard sits down cautiously at the other end.

A small, hoarse voice says: “Surprised you want to, though.”

Howard puts his glass down on the table. His hand is shaking. Must be the effect of the potion.

Vince’s head is still bowed. Howard takes a deep breath; this might be his only chance to apologise. “Listen, I – it was my fault, OK? I went wrong, I ruined the gig for you and had the bad taste to crack a joke about it. I’m not surprised you were angry. I was a bit surprised at _how_ angry, but I can understand you having a go at me –”

An even smaller voice interrupts him. “ 'S why I've been avoidin' you... I’m scared I might do it again.”

“I’m not. You’re not a monster, Vince. You’re just… someone who was pushed too far. By someone who should have known better. I mean – _minstrels_? What was I thinking?”

There is a long silence. Howard reaches for the water; his throat is dry. He’s about half-emptied the glass when Vince says:

“The minstrels weren’t it.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t the minstrel thing that made me really mad, it was having to do the crimp-off.”

“But we were brilliant. It was the only way to save our reputation.”

“I just wish there could have been another way. Our crimping times are _private_ , Howard. They’re just for you an’ me. Or they were. They won’t be the same now everybody else knows about them.” Vince looks up, frowning. “First you lured me into a crimp in front of those two copycat jerkoffs, then we had to make a show of them for the whole Onion crowd. Now they’ll all be crimping, it won’t be special any more.”

“I – I hadn’t realised.” Howard is shocked by the anguish in Vince’s blue eyes. “I didn’t know it was so personal for you.”

“Well, you know now. Takin’ our clothes off on stage would’ve been less personal.”

Howard doesn’t argue, although he’s rather glad it didn’t come to that…

“It made me feel…” Vince’s brow is furrowed with the effort of finding the right words “…horrible. It was genius on the outside, but inside I was all sort-of wound up, tighter and tighter. We had to win, and we _did_ win, an’ I thought chucking a few satsumas and snowballs would get me unwound again, but when you said… Y’know, I can’t even remember what you said, I just know it made me want to kill you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“So am I.” A tiny, rather sad smile ghosts its way across Vince’s face. “You’ve got so much to give…”

“That’s just it, though. I didn’t give, did I?”

“What? When?”

Howard’s had a lot of time to think about this, these past couple of days. And he’s not proud of himself. “Right at the beginning, when all this kicked off. When you came back from the fashion doctor. I should have been there for you.”

“You were. You put your hand on my shoulder an’ everything.”

“Only while I thought something was really wrong… something I would have counted as really wrong. And when I found out what really _was_ wrong, I threw my drink in your face. I might just as well have said piss off, I don’t care about your feelings, your view of the world isn’t important.”

Vince is looking at Howard as though he’s never seen him before. “I hadn’t thought about it like that. But yeah, now you mention it, that didn’t exactly make me feel like a bundle of laughs.”

“And then I thought about ditching you. When you went all depressed. I hadn’t thought that you might actually _need_ me to stick with you when things went a bit wrong and you couldn't be all sunshiney…”

“Like now,” Vince whispers.

Howard puts down the glass, and stretches an arm across the back of the sofa. “Come here.”

Vince shakes his head. “You’re all sore.”

“I’m on the mend now. Naboo’s been working the old magic.”

“An’ you don’t like people touching you.”

“You’re not _people_. You’re _Vince_.”

Vince shuffles hesitantly across the cushions to sit next to Howard, not quite touching.

“Howard?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for cleanin’ my boots.”

“Least I could do. Since it was me that messed them up.” Howard lets his outstretched arm slip down the back of the sofa and rest across Vince’s shoulders.

“Howard?”

“Yes?”

“It’s… going to be all right, isn’t it?”

Howard can’t reply; he just pulls Vince closer.

Vince heaves a huge, shuddering sigh, and crawls into Howard’s lap; Howard grunts as he catches his sore ribs.

“H-Howard?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry you’re a bit broken.”

Vince is crying quietly; Howard holds him tighter. “I think we’re both a bit broken, Vince. In fact you’re more broken than I am. But don’t worry, we’ll mend, we always do.”

Vince sniffles into Howard’s shoulder. “How?”

Howard smiles, for the first time in several days, and passes him a hankie. “Let me run something by you, little man.”

…

 

“Hey, Naboo.”

“What, Bollo?”

“Come an’ look at this.”

“Fuck off, I’m busy.”

“Busy gettin’ high?”

“No, busy writin’ an ad for replacement shop staff. Can’t have those two workin’ here if they’re not even speaking to each other.”

“You can throw that away. Harold grooming precious Vince’s hair.”

“I don’t need to see that.”

“Neither did Bollo, but I think you need to hear this.”

“Hey, I think you’re right. That is one magic crimp. Chuck this draft advert in the bin for us, would you?”

…

 

_“Satsuma, orange zoomer, hurl it thro’ the snow, uh-oh, aim it for the toe, low_ blow, _aim it for the eye, too_ high, _in the chest, that’s best, not the hair, don’t you **dare** , better duck, better luck next time, out of line, _Sat _suma_ Splat _suma_ Flat _suma, last one gone, what a drag, drag, drag, **DRAG** … Better get another bag.” ___


End file.
